In a Grain of Sand
by Myrielle
Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is wise, knowledgeable and the only one able to knock sense into the current Grand Master. He's also determined to solve the mystery, return Virginia Bradley to the age that spawned her and do it before she causes his Bureau to fall apart.
1. I

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except for the plot and OCs. Certainly not made for profit.

Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is knowledgeable, wise and the only one able to talk sense into the current Grand Master of the Assassins. He's also determined to solve the mystery and return Virginia Bradley to the era that spawned her. He just has to figure out how to do that and keep her from causing his Bureau to fall apart.

**A GRAIN OF SAND**

"Virginia, you there, sweetheart?"

Those weren't words that she wanted to say aloud but she thought them nonetheless, heard them echo at the back of her mind as she stole a glance at her reflection in the protective glass covering which sheltered an ancient ceramic bowl from curious fingers. From the back, someone nudged her and Virginia moved automatically. Seconds later, it occurred to her to stand her ground but by then it was too late. She had been moved to the periphery and others were coming in to fill up the rest of the space. Sighing, she bit her lip and wandered off to enjoy the exhibit as much as she could.

"Yes I am. And I am enjoying myself," she murmured firmly under her breath. Although she made the effort not to look at her left hand, she could feel the unusual lightness of the ring finger, and looking was not enough to erase the knowledge that the slender silver band was gone. By now it was probably buried under a ton of garbage under some landfill, a fitting metaphor for her recently ended marriage.

She was all of twenty-two, worked at the family bookstore and was currently trying to decide on which Masters degree she wanted to pursue. And she had decided months before that she was going to attend the exhibit of Middle Eastern Ceramics dating back to the twelfth century. In that very complicated family tree of hers was an ancestor from Jerusalem, although looking at her, one would have firmly placed Virginia Bradley as hailing from Asia. With her dark hair and even blacker almond eyes, she looked nothing like her strawberry blond sisters or brunette brother. Idly, her fingers tangled in the long silver chain she wore around her neck. Another piece of history passed down from that particular ancestor. It was a tiny bronze bead trapped in glass blown around it, completely ordinary except for the years in had endured and the hands that had held it, all lost in time, buried in a sea of years of which she formed one drop.

"Stop it, Ginnie," she warned, shaking her head, spotting the melancholy that was starting to creep in through the door. She had spent months in a depression, to the point where her parents had given her back her old room and forcibly brought her back to live with them so that she wouldn't die under piles of unwashed laundry and dishes. Thanks to them, she was up on her feet and pretty steady.

Slipping the chain back under her new silk blouse, Ginnie straightened her shoulders, let her eyes run over the crowd and chose to slip through an opening. One particular display was neglected and she made a beeline for that. It was a series of cups, nothing special except for the exquisite intricate patterns of beads and engraved carvings that lined the rims. As she admired them, Ginnie realized the tallest cup, which looked more like a humbly fashioned chalice, had a small gap in the row that adorned the broad base. Bending down for a closer look, she frowned. Those beads looked awfully familiar…

Pain lanced through her head, a sharp stroke that left throbbing in its wake. Ginnie hissed, hands going for her head and she realized that the chain around her neck was burning her skin. "What the hell…!" Feeling frantically for the clasp, she realized that the metal was getting hotter; it scorched the tips of her fingers. Her mother was going to kill her but Ginnie's first thought was self-preservation for the present moment and with that, she yanked at the chain, felt it snap and fly from her fingers and slam into the glass with a crack that seemed to echo through the museum.

When the chain didn't fall to the floor, Ginnie rubbed her eyes and stared again. Like a pin drawn to a magnet, the chain remained stuck against the surface of the glass. Her mouth went slack with shock; this could not be happening. She would have attempted to grab the chain except that by now, it was emitting a reddish glow, as was the chalice missing the bead.

"Hey!"

The sound of scuffling drew her attention and she turned behind to see a man being shoved to the ground by another. Two others were pushing their way through towards her as well. And they did not look friendly. Instinct made Ginnie take two steps back, so close she could feel the heat of the chain at her back. And then all hell broke lose as shots were fired. The crowd screamed in unison and broke apart. Someone shoved her, hard, and she fell, bringing the display down with her. Glass shattered and Virginia cried out as she felt shards pierce her skin as she landed, palms out and flat to break the fall. Through her tears and terror, she realized that chalice had rolled several feet away into a corner, safe from the stampede around her. Her necklace was nowhere in sight and suddenly she knew, just knew that it was with the chalice; the bead had returned to its place of origin. She didn't know what the hell was going on but an impulsive doggedness seized her and she pushed forward through the crowd. Come what may, that chalice and her necklace were coming with her.

Several people ran into her but she pushed them off, her eyes fixed on the prize. At the back of her mind, she was aware of the terrified urge to run but for the moment, instinct was drowned out by the overwhelming desire to have the chalice. Finally, she made it and with an expression of grim triumph, she grabbed the cup.

For a moment, Virginia's vision swam and she saw another pair of hands superimposed over hers, and a soft voice speaking in a language she could not understand. In the chalice, there were several drops of blood. Her breath caught in her lungs and she could hear the pounding of her heart above the mayhem. And then the world collapsed in a glow of red and gold.

Virginia screamed as light pierced the darkness behind her tightly shut lids and she felt herself fall away into nothingness.

…

He had not seen his third decade yet but already he felt like an old man. Maybe it was the infernally hot day, hotter than the norm with the sun blazing its single eye on the suffering population which sought refuge in vain under tents and in the buildings. The air, scorching, dry and acrid still found them and wrapped itself around their skin, coating them with sticky perspiration, beading their brows. It made his arm itch miserably and he felt more wretched still that his right hand was fully occupied at the moment with several wrapped cloth bags containing food and jars of precious inks and quills. Of course he could have stopped and scratched but Malik was reluctant to draw more attention to his arm, or rather, the lack of one. One year on and it was still a sensitive topic to him, still drew glances of curiosity from the public. Revulsion he was comfortable with; it was pity that he despised because they were right. It was a weakness and he was not a whole man because of it. Every fibre in his being was attuned to making up for the change in weight and he was always far more wary of movements to his left, which in turn impeded his perception of the right. He hated that he was no more an Assassin, merely a Rafiq, even if, according to Altair, he was a Rafiq of Rafiqs. Others sent their Assassins to seek his advice and knowledge. On some days, that sufficed. Malik hoped that those days would increase.

In spite of his stubborn resolve, or perhaps, because of it, the itching in his arm escalated, invading the thick scarring that formed around the cut made by the surgeons, creeping rapidly up to his shoulder. With a fierce oath, Malik gripped his purchases tightly and soldiered his way through the sweating crowd. He was damned if he was going to stop because of a mere itch. The sight of Templar soldiers ahead made him pause slightly. Like all bullies, they loved picking on the weak and feeble. They usually made the mistake of applying that to Malik. It was easy enough to blend into a crowd and evade them but he was not in the mood for listening to any taunts. As a member of the Brotherhood, he was not to draw attention to himself or the others. Putting a blade into the neck of the Templars was obviously not the way to do so and given his current foul mood, Malik decided discretion was the better part of valour.

Cutting gracefully through the sea of bodies, Malik headed for a narrow alleyway that would eventually lead him to the Bureau. It was a more round about way and one that ordinary citizens would avoid but he was armed and far more dangerous than the average man and those who died in the shadows told no tales so as far as he was concerned, this was a good route to take.

That was until the sun itself seemed to descend into the path before him. One moment, everything was still except for the pickpocket on the roof who had been watching him. The next, dazzling golden lights exploded before him, forcing him to drop his bags and shield his eyes with his arm. Turning away, his hand fell on the dagger he kept hidden in his robes and with a metallic ring, he drew it. Back pressed against the wall to protect him from an assault from behind, Malik tried to open his eyes but the light was too strong. The silence was deafening and he could not make out the cries of the vendors, the sounds of cattle and mule, muted as they would be from this distance. A wave of unease rippled through him. This unnatural glow and the accompanying heavy stillness in the air reminded him too much of the encounter between Al Mualim and Altair.

"Another piece of Eden?" he wondered. Malik was contemplating retreating from the light when as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished. Brown eyes opened, blinked at the white spots that danced before them before realizing that the light had not taken all that it had brought with it. On the ground was sprawled a woman, and her attire was… Malik had no words to describe what she was wearing. Not even the Franj or the women they brought with them wore such clothing. And not even the whores from the brothels bared that much flesh except behind closed doors. But it was what she held in her hand that garnered most of his attention. In one hand she held a broken necklace with a bronzed bead encased in some kind of clear material. The skin on her hands was scratched and laced with thin lines of blood.

He was down on one knee trying to ascertain if she had suffered any injuries when she stirred and groaned. "You are awake then?" he said gruffly, slipping his hand beneath her face to grasp her chin, trying to get a better look at this stranger's face.

The ground beneath her strange, warm and uneven. Her head felt so heavy and memories swam in her head. She remembered the screams and the gunshots, the golden glow that had overwhelmed her, the darkness she had fallen into. Someone slipped a hand beneath her chin, lifting her face. When she opened her eyes, the man's face swam into view, blurred at the edges in spite of her blinking. He loomed closer, his voice low, like the rumble of thunder at a distance, his words strange and indecipherable. Ginnie raised herself up on one elbow, shaking her face free when she realized that the hand beneath her face was currently holding a knife. A very long and wicked looking knife.

Malik dropped the knife and slapped his palm over the woman's mouth before the scream erupted from her lips. His thumb and fingers dug into the soft flesh of her cheeks and above them, those strange black eyes were wide with horror and panic. With one hand she pulled at his wrist, with the other she tried to hit him. He dodged easily, twisting around to straddle her back, pressing her into the ground without mercy. Her screams were well muffled and although she flailed like an angry shark out of water, she was unable to throw him off.

She was going to die, Ginnie thought wildly as she panted against the rough palm that stopped her screams. And there was no one in this strange alleyway to help her. With her face almost on the ground she could see the knife before her eyes and she wondered why her assailant had yet to cut her throat. He bent low and said something in her ear and the sheer proximity of his face to hers caused her to renew her struggles.

"Stop that," Malik ordered but his words had no effect on her. "I promised I would do you no harm." The words were barely out of his mouth when the sound of metal on metal and hard running footsteps reached him. His lips curled in a silent snarl; the soldiers were coming, undoubtedly drawn by the light. For a moment he contemplated leaving the woman and taking the object she held in her hand; that would surely be enough to solve the mystery. He would leave it to Altair to determine, probably with the help of that wretched Apple, if this truly was a Piece of Eden. But one look at her terrified face, bared arms and legs told him he could not leave her to the mercies of the city guards. He had heard enough horror stories from beleaguered brothel owners and angry grieving fathers to know that the soldiers, Franj or otherwise, thought every woman in Jerusalem was theirs for the taking, let alone those who walked about in such an undressed fashion.

Since they already seemed to be headed their way, he saw no reason for maintaining the silence and released her to retrieve his knife. As he expected, she began screaming again. What stunned Malik though was that she began screaming in English and with an accent he was unacquainted with.

"Help me! Somebody, please!"

Suddenly the crushing weight from her back lifted and before she could even think, Ginnie found herself yanked to her feet, her wrist caught in a grip she knew was going to leave bruises. She tried to kick the man and found herself propelled against the wall, the breath knocked from her body. "Listen to me," he hissed and she certainly did because this time, the words that came out of his mouth made perfect sense. His English was heavily accented but his pronunciation as crystal clear. "City guards are coming this way and if you wish to return home unharmed, you will shut your mouth and do as I tell you."

For a moment Ginnie simply stared at the man, her mouth hanging open before she remembered to use it. "City guards? In New York?"

"This is Jerusalem. You must have hit your head harder than I thought."

Like she thought, there was really no use arguing with a mad man. "Perhaps if you could leave me here, I'll find my own way back."

Cinnamon eyes with deep black irises bore into hers and the look on his face informed her that he thought her quite, quite stupid. Not since the third grade had anyone made her feel that small. "Your senses are addled, else you would not be dressed in such a fashion. You appeared together with that light and I want to know what it is you are about and if," his eyes glanced at the chain in her hand, "this is truly a Piece of Eden."

"Eden? As in Adam and Eve? And you saw the light as well? Were you inside the museum just now?" Ginnie truly wanted answers to her questions, if only it would slow him down for a second because he had begun dragging her along with him. Digging in her heels, Ginnie looked around frantically for something, anything to help and that was when she realized the cup was missing.

"Wait! Where is the chalice?"

That got his attention. Malik spun around, suspicious but she wasn't even looking at him but instead glancing around. He could smell the panic radiating off her. Unfortunately, the soldiers were getting closer. "There's no time, we have to go now—"

"The cup! It goes together with the chain…" Ginnie pleaded, pulling on the hand that imprisoned her even as her gaze scoured the narrow lane. There was nothing but a few stacks of discarded crates and rubbish as far as she could see. "We need to search this place—"

"Halt, infidels!"

If they weren't in such an alarming situation, Malik would have rolled his eyes. Everyone was an infidel, apparently. The sight of the soldier's eyes, huge as saucers as they alighted on the woman, was rather amusing though. "Run!" he ordered.

She would have but at the moment, staring down at her from the other side of the alleyway was a man wearing the most authentic armour she had ever seen. And was that really a bow and arrow in his hands? The hand around her wrist tightened and her captor began dragging her along with him. "Halt!" The solder bellowed as he notched an arrow to his bow. That snapped Ginnie out of her stupor. "Is he really going to—?"

Malik cursed and slammed both of them against the wall, seconds before the arrow whistled past. The woman screamed again and this time, when he ordered her to run, there were no delays.

* * *

><p>an: My very first AC fanfic. I simply adore Malik. Love it/hate it?


	2. II

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except for the plot and OCs. Certainly not made for profit.

Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is knowledgeable, wise and the only one able to talk sense into the current Grand Master of the Assassins. He's also determined to solve the mystery and return Virginia Bradley to the era that spawned her. He just has to figure out how to do that and keep her from causing his Bureau to fall apart.

**A GRAIN OF SAND**

II.

As they pounded down the alleyway, Virginia gasped for breath and out of sheer fright. There were no more arrows but she was pretty sure it was because the man was dragging her through a maze of tiny back streets that made it impossible for their pursuers to get a clean shot. Unfortunately, they hadn't lost them yet although she had no idea where she was.

A sharp turn down the right and she slipped on the dirt ground again. The man swore again and she caught a clear "Allah!" within his muttered oath. By sheer strength, he kept her upright.

"I'm sorry but if I had known I wouldn't have worn wedge heels!" Ginnie snapped, trying to ignore the pain that shot up her calf from her ankle. Neither would she have chosen a short denim skirt to wear, or gone to the damned museum to see that wretched exhibit as a matter of fact.

For a second they glared at each other before resuming their mad flight. Adrenaline had kept her legs moving so far but Ginnie was becoming aware of the sharp stitch in her side and that her panting had grown in volume. Thankfully, as they rounded another narrow bend, the stranger pushed her towards a pile of crates. "Climb!"

'What? The wall?" What did she look like, Peter Parker? He most definitely was crazy, Ginnie fumed. "Do I look capable of that to you?"

Apparently, Allah had decided to drop an idiot into his lap. Shoes were meant for walking and this woman's shoes were meant to impede movement. And she actually thought he wanted her to scale these walls when she could barely walk? "No, up the crates and through that window!" Impatiently, Malik leaped lightly up the dusty wood and using his speed, pushed up hard and with his hand, just grabbed hold of the ledge. Utilising his momentum, he swung his body agilely to the side and looped a leg over the ledge, pulling himself neatly into the room.

Maybe she wasn't Peter Parker but he most certainly was. Even if he didn't have both arms, let alone eight. That fact hadn't been lost on her even during the hell for leather pace he set. Ginnie was still blinking when he poked his head out and leaning down, offered her an arm, hissing at her to be quick. She could feel the soldiers breathing down her neck…

Seized by sudden inspiration, she reached down and pulled her feet free of the wedges before flinging them down the alley as far as she could. After all, she couldn't climb in those and she could always get them back—she hoped. Clambering up as best she could, Ginnie yelped as the wood pricked her feet. With her eyes focused on his outstretched hand, she forced herself to run in spite of the slightly wobbling crates and jumped.

She wasn't going to make it. Malik's eyes widened slightly and not for the first time that day did he curse the loss of his left arm. If he leaned out anymore, her weight could pull them both down but he couldn't let her drop. Surely he was capable of even that… Her hand clamped down on his and he locked his fingers around her wrist, bracing his knees against the wall. He felt the hardened limestone bite into his knees through the robes, felt the soles of his feet leave the floor slightly before he pulled with all his might, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

As Ginnie looked up into his face, she saw grim determination but also slight panic. He was too far out! And then she felt him stop sliding forward, felt herself being lifted up and thanking God with every breath, she scrabbled with her other hand for the ledge and tumbled over it onto the floor. Dust swirled, beige-white and smoke-like around them and she pinched her nose. 'Damned if a sneeze will give us away after this.'

Malik was already up and ushering her to the other side of the tiny room. There was a doorway there and the stairs led down to an entrance that opened up to another street. "Here, put this on." As she struggled into his robe, he pulled her down the stairs with him. A quick look outside told him the coast was clear and behind the house, he could hear the soldiers as they shouted and rushed in the direction of the discarded shoes. Satisfied, he turned back and was greeted by a sight that ordinarily would have amused him. She was a good several inches shorter than him and his robe fairly engulfed her. With the hood pulled up over her hair, she looked like a short youth. A short bare-foot youth. Malik frowned but there was nothing that could be done about that.

"No matter what, you stay close to me," he ordered, shoving her out the doorway and into the alley.

Try as she might, Ginnie could not get her bearings but within seconds, she could hear the sounds of a crowd and two turns to the left later, they were out and mingling with what seemed like a horde of people. The smell of sweat, animal odours and food assailed her, as did the bodies that moved like swirling waves, back and forth. She almost lost sight of him and when she spotted his lean form, those bright cinnamon eyes glaring at her, she scurried gratefully behind him. The sight of guards perusing the stands in search of fresh fruit made her flinch and duck her head low.

Somehow, he was able to lead them into the heart of the crowd or even when the numbers tapered out, they were always with a small group of three or four. In the distance, Ginnie could hear the soldiers shouting and knew that eyes were scanning the surroundings for them. Praying silently, she concentrated on keeping pace with the man, and tried not to hear the "Only Ginnie" refrain that was playing in her head.

When she had been seven, she had been duped into taking candy from a stranger and only her mother's timely arrival had saved her from what turned out to be the neighbourhood pedophile. When she had been fourteen, she had played truant for the first and only time because the McDonald's she had gone to had been the same one the Principal had popped into for a quick snack. When she had been eighteen, her younger brother's best friend had met her boyfriend and after that, both of them had come out of the closet and she had been promptly dumped. Each time it happened, there was inevitably an "Only Ginnie" joke. This, was going to be the eternal classic, if people believed her that was. She was pretty sure most would say she had lost her marbles and so Ginnie decided that she was never going to talk about this. Because she was wondering whether she had actually lost her marbles.

They had been walking for the longest time before finally, he led her into another tiny street, one of many that crisscrossed the town, and she arrived at a nondescript white building, one of many in that area. "Up the ladder," he urged and mechanically, she climbed. When she got up, the first thing she saw was a view of the city that paralysed her. She was no geography expert but one look at the cityscape, with its low rise buildings, prominent dome shaped structures, the palm trees, minarets and towers and the sheer expanse of the place convinced her. This was no elaborate joke, no movie set she had stumbled into. Her feet hurt like the devil and the constriction in her chest told her that she was very much awake and alive, not dreaming.

"How can this be real?"

If there was anything Malik was ill-equipped to deal with, it was a woman's tears and this one looked ready to water a desert. He also recognized the signs of shock on her face. Taking her arm, he guided her to the edge. The entrance was sealed with an intricate metal trellis that was thickly covered by leafy vines. Bending swiftly, he pressed down on a steel rose, and its right and left leaves in that order. There was an audible click and the corner to the trellis dropped down neatly, forming the entrance to the Bureau. "Down there, you should be able to make it." When she mutely obeyed him without hesitation, Malik started to really worry. Perhaps the woman was not out of her mind. New York, she had said New York. He had never heard of such a place and his mind flashed to the unchartered territories revealed by the Apple. Had the Piece of Eden really transported her from another land? Could it truly perform such a miracle?

With a bone jarring thump, Ginnie landed in the cool shade of what appeared to be an outer hall of sorts. There were two fountains, plants and some very large cushions scattered about. "What, no yellow brick road home? A painting perhaps? A magic cupboard?" she intoned humorlessly, knowing the references would be lost on him. "Where am I and what am I doing here?"

"You are in Jerusalem. It is the year 1192, the sixth month."

"You don't say."

When a person has just been told they have time-travelled and basically done something that only happens in an Arthur C. Clarke novel, they can do whatever they want.

Having decided that, Ginnie made a beeline for the fountain, leaned over the edge and threw up, ignoring the outraged yell behind her.

…...

It had taken him two hours to drain and clean out the fountain, and that was after he had seen to the beleaguered woman. She had been unable to do much except clean her face and feet after washing the blood from her hands. He had helped her apply salve to disinfect her wounds and had given her a cup of water laced with enough opium to send her into a deep sleep. Too much shock could harm the mind, that much he had seen for himself, especially when tending to traumatised novices who had made extremely messy first kills and had to flee for their lives with half the city guards screaming for their blood.

Now she was curled up on a pallet in a spare room, unconscious to the world while he examined the contents of the bag she had left on the floor. It was curiously made, he had never seen such patterns the leather before, neither could he understand what the emblem imprinted all over the bag stood for. Perhaps it was part of her family crest, an identifying marker of sorts. There was a smaller pouch inside and when he emptied that out, he found a perfectly cylindrical container of sorts that snapped open when pressed down to reveal smooth, tightly packed scented powder. There was a tube of sorts which revealed a stick of crimson when twisted. These had to be cosmetics, Malik decided. But it was the wondrous flat boxlike mechanism that lit up when he pressed on the small indent at the bottom that convinced him she was not only from another land, but perhaps another world. It was smooth, very slim with beautifully rounded edges and incredibly light. There was a picture which was revealed each time he pressed on the indent and although Malik had seen paintings by master artisans, he knew that was no hand on earth that could produce such an illustration. It looked almost as though the butterflies were captured inside and a small shudder ran through him although he refused to give in to superstitions by putting it down. There were many strange things in the wide world but he had yet to encounter an object that could seal away a person or capture their soul.

Further examination failed to reveal a power source apparent to him and in the end, Malik turned his attention to the rest of the bag's contents. Apparently keyholes and locks were much tinier from where she came from. Money had changed though, the coins were much lighter and he was sure they were not silver but some cheap metal. The paper had strange faces and drawings on it and he wondered if it really could purchase anything or if it served another purpose.

Last of all, he held up the necklace with the bead. It looked perfectly ordinary, a bronze metal bead surrounded by glass that was now slightly cracked. "What are you?" he murmured but the tiny bronze object merely winked in the thick golden light of the evening sun that had crept in through the single window of the Bureau.

…_.The cup! It goes together with the chain…_

She would sleep through to the morning, under the combined effects of the opium and her exhaustion. At worst, she would awaken several hours later. The sun would fully set in an hour's time. And that, would be more than enough for what he had planned in mind. Almost reflexively, Malik rubbed his left arm, easing phantom aches. While he was still more efficient than most assassins who were in possession of all their limbs, he had to acknowledge his limits if he wanted to stay alive. Jerusalem might be ruled by Salah al-Din but he had no love of Assassins and the city guards were more than keen to pursue one. The treaty struck with Richard allowed for Christian pilgrims to visit the city and hence the Templars, a limited number, were allowed to remain. That, and the enormous bribes they paid. The young nephew of Salah al-Din, whose name ironically was also Malik, was ruling in his uncle's stead. So far, he had not seemed to be in league with the Templars but Masyaf was keeping a close eye on him. So far, so good. The fallout would be terrible if the Sultan's favourite nephew died under an Assassin's blade.

Night would offer him a cloak from the sentinels posted during the night watch. While he could still climb, Malik knew that he was nowhere as proficient as before. Gone were the days of hurling himself at a wall with crevices few and far in between. Now he had to depend more on his legs than his arm and some walls were impossible to scale. Altair had nursed an injured eagle in his youth, the bird having lost part of a wing. While it had grown fat and glossy under the assassin's care, Malik recalled the bird staring out at the window at the sky and now he knew exactly what it felt like, to be caged by one's own body.

Retrieving his chest from a hidden compartment in one of the many shelves behind his desk, Malik gently opened it to reveal his Assassin's garb. As was his custom, he ran a hand over the white cloth, feeling the material on his fingertips, the leather beneath his skin. At least not all was taken from him.

Tonight, on nights like these, he could still fly.

…...

Rasheed, like his father before him, and his father's father, was a pickpocket. In fact, he was one of the best pickpockets in Jerusalem. While others snatched what they could and made a mad dash for it, Rasheed earmarked his targets in advance and had worked out escape routes for himself, depending on which district he was in. That way, he only had to strike once every two or three days and not prowl the streets all the time like the pitiful street urchins he often saw and sometimes helped. He had a child of his own and since then, he had learnt some compassion.

Curiosity had brought him back to the alleyway though. That afternoon, he had witnessed a miracle. He had been shadowing a local scholar and book trader, and had been wandering if he ought to steal from a man who had chosen to walk the dangerous alleyways when a twin of the sun had appeared in their midst and blinded him. He had witnessed the strange woman and the scholar fleeing from the guards, had stayed to watch more guards come to search the place.

With a graceful hop, Rasheed landed on the ground. He was very much alone, for the moment and scratched his head, wondering if the guards had missed anything. Movement to the left made him jump and reach for the short dagger strapped to his arm but it was only a street cat, a mangy skinny specimen that fixed him with unearthly yellow eyes and hissed before scurrying away. In the next second, he knew why.

Cold steel pressed against his throat, the edge opened his skin and he smelt the faint metallic tang of his blood in the air. If he even moved a hair's breadth he ran the risk of slitting his own throat. Rasheed gasped and the movement pressed his skin against the blade, widening the paper-thin cut.

"I would advise you to speak the truth. You might live then." The voice was low, slightly raspy and not one he was likely to be able to identify if he ever heard it again. More terrifying than the threat though was his assailant's ability to come right up behind him and put a knife to his throat. Rasheed had not even heard a whisper of movement. Was he a Jinn? That was absurd; spirits had no need of weapons. But what other explanation was there for this unnatural stealth?

To Malik's satisfaction, the man whispered a terrified affirmative. Marginally, he relaxed the press of his blade against his victim's throat. He had arrived to find the slender young man skulking about the rooftops above the alley and knew instantly it was the same pickpocket who had been shadowing him earlier that day. "What is it that you are searching for?" A thief, Malik knew, never came back to a place unless there was something he hoped to steal.

"I do not know, sayyid." The blade pressed closer and in spite of his fear, Rasheed shrank back against very man who was threatening his life. "Please, I have a son—"

"That is your concern, not mine. What is it you seek here?"

"Anything left behind by the city guards!"

"What did they take?"

He had watched from the rooftops as the soldiers, later joined by Franj ones who bore the familiar and dreaded insignia of the cross, scoured the narrow lane and found an ordinary chalice which they wrapped in cloth and concealed in the robes of their Captain. "They also took the woman's sandals," Rasheed added helpfully, hoping he had purchased his life with all the information he had spilled.

So there had been a cup after all and it had slipped through his fingers because of an accursed Jerusalem guard. In all probability, it was now in the hands of the Templars, based on the description provided by the pickpocket. That was alarming news and he would have to write to Masyaf at once.

Rasheed could feel the cold sweat of terror drip down his neck as he waited in silence. Years from now, those few seconds would be etched as an eternity in his mind. "You will not turn around. You will count to twenty and then make your way back from whence you came. Lastly, you will tell no one of what you saw, either of the cup or of the woman."

"Certainly, sayyid."

"You have a son, yes?"

Rasheed's mouth went dry; he inhaled sharply and behind him, Malik smiled. There were other types of blades that worked as well as the one he was holding. "It is a wise father that guards his son well."

"With my life," Rasheed swore in a strangled whisper. The flat of the blade pressed against his throat, the sharp point nicked the side of his throat and then it was gone, along with his shadowy assailant. And still he heard not a rustle of movement. It was as though the man had stepped back and vanished. Knees shaking, he lowered himself to the ground, careful to keep his head down least death come back for him.

Slowly, he began counting.

* * *

><p>an: Many thanks to **flyingcrispi**, **NyaPowa** and **Eraluan** for reviewing! I really appreciate your comments and yes, Ginnie won't be a Sue, for sure. Especial thanks to **NyaPowa** for pointing out certain details. I'm far from an expert but I am reading up since I love stories that provide authentic descriptions as well. Any and all guidance in this area is much appreciated.

I've made small changes to chapter 1 and also the Assassin's Bureau, especially the entrance. I do know what the real thing looks like but I had a couple of questions when I saw it... :P


	3. III

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except for the plot and OCs. Certainly not made for profit.

Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is knowledgeable, wise and the only one able to talk sense into the current Grand Master of the Assassins. He's also determined to solve the mystery and return Virginia Bradley to the era that spawned her. He just has to figure out how to do that and keep her from causing his Bureau to fall apart.

**IN A GRAIN OF SAND**

III.

It is barely morning; the edges of the velvet night are but tinged with the thinnest layer of light. The flags that dot the city walls stir gently in the faint breath of the wind. The sleepy citizens who are awake, slowly shuffling off the coils of this temporal sleep are too weary and worn to look up and appreciate the numerous stars that wink down upon them. If they had, they could have caught a glimpse of the Assassin as he leaped gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, his robes spread out behind him, the silver tail of an eagle in flight, before vanishing like a ghost.

Like a man who cannot relinquish the touch of a past love, Malik has not returned to the Bureau until dawn begins its inevitable approach. Such times breathe new life into him and as much as he enjoys his books and maps, this is what he has been bred for, shaped and fashioned as an instrument of peace and death, depending on which side his blade falls. The crunch of the limestone bricks beneath his boots, the feel of the dust and mortar on his fingers, the slight burn in his shoulder as he hauls himself up over edges. The wind on his face and the thrill in his blood as he defies gravity again and again, dancing into shadows as he eludes the light while guards stand mere feet away, oblivious to his presence. History may never hear of him but Malik al-Sayf has never doubted the mark he leaves behind. That he knows is a fact that will always be enough.

...

It has not been the most fruitful of nights though. Knowing the Templars have the chalice is not enough, not if he can find out more. It is also partly due to this that Malik finds himself slinking into the small barracks maintained by the Templars. He knows the exact minute when the guards change shift, has mapped the layout of the enemy's territory and he does not have to look to know that there are two guards currently patrolling the perimeter and there are another two pairs guarding the entrance and exit respectively. The crunch of boots on the dusty, gravel-strewn ground tells him they are now somewhere northeast of him. And with that knowledge, Malik sidles past a dormitory unit—keeping his body low to the ground with his footsteps quick and light—and darts towards the back of another. The guards are less than three feet away but as the distance increases, so does the small spark of triumph in the Assassin's chest. Another quick dash takes him towards the small building which houses the dining room, where the Templars who have just been relieved of their duty often indulge in wine and gossip before retiring. The latter is what he is after. As luck would have it, there are several barrels of wine stacked around the back and sides of the building. It is sloppy and a definite fire hazard but apparently the Templars do not care, and Malik is not about to complain. Crouching against the stack nearest to a roughly hewn window, he flattens himself against the wall, strains his ears to pick out the conversation while keeping a lookout for the patrol and any soldiers who might wander by. He remains perfectly still and it will take more than a casual glance to pick him out on this night with thick grey clouds that shroud the moon and its light.

"Did you hear?"

No, he has not. But he is all ears.

"They've decided to bring the True Cross back to Jerusalem."

Not the news he has been waiting for but news worth hearing all the same.

A third voice joins in. "Apparently the city's coffers are running dry and the regent has managed to persuade his uncle Saladin to return the Cross. Says it will make a good attraction for the pilgrims who'll pay anything to see the tree that Christ was hung from."

"And we get to collect more on protecting them too." That is the fourth man, the one who has just been informed.

There is laughter all around. Malik's mind is busy processing the implications of the return of one of Christianity's holiest relics but is also aware that he is mildly disgusted with the Templars for exploiting the very people they call brothers and sisters in faith; these low ranking soldiers cannot possibly know about the existence of the Apple or the Pieces of Eden but the desire to take advantage of a religion is there all the same. 'Just as the Old Man used the Creed.' Used Kadar is the thought that echoes after and he pushes down the angry bitterness that threatens to rear its ugly head.

While the soldiers discuss profits to be made, Malik foresees more Templar guards returning as well. Escorting the Cross, protecting the Cross, protecting the pilgrims, more Templars to protect the increasing number of the faithful. He can practically hear the excuses being offered up, along with the sound of gold coins shifting in full chests. What a lovely excuse for increasing their numbers, one that the young Regent would be hard pressed to refuse. A gap between the dormitories reveals the patrol and Malik keeps his eyes on them. Fortunately, they are predictably keeping their heads turned in the directions of the walls that surround the barracks.

Malik waits some more and suffers through inane chatter in which he learns which brothels house the best prostitutes and that one of the soldiers fears his wife is cheating on him, which is ironic given that he is the one giving out most of the advice about the brothels, their complains about duties being mundane et cetera and Malik wonders wistfully why all Templars could not be as simple-minded as these four. Life would be so much easier then and the damned Pieces of Eden could remain buried because the Assassins would have crushed their enemies so thoroughly that the latter would blow as dust in the desert wind.

When it becomes clear that he will hear nothing useful about the afternoon's incident or the chalice, Malik decides he has had enough. He waits until the patrol just passes his hiding place before bolting back to the dormitories, weaving his way to the exit. It was easy enough getting in, all it took was a well executed leap from a higher rooftop close to the walls but unfortunately on the inside, all the buildings were low and the walls, too high for a leap out. If he had both arms maybe he might have attempted a climb but the walls look impossibly smooth and are unadorned, free of any carvings or decorations that an Assassin would have appreciated.

So Malik runs, knowing he has but one chance to get out before the eventual alarm is raised. The soldiers guarding the exit have their backs to him for the moment but that is all he needs. He picks up the pace, draws a dagger from the leather belt at his waist and flicks his wrist.

Frederick is unsuccessfully stifling a yawn and wondering if he has made a mistake in joining the crusades when Raymond—or maybe it is Richard—next to him suddenly slumps to the ground. He spins around, intent on snapping at the older man for being a clumsy fool when he sees something glinting from the back of the man's neck. For one blank moment, Frederick stares, gapes. He knows it is a dagger, the handle curiously wrought in curved spirals that end in delicate feather like patterns. It takes him two seconds more to process that Raymond-Richard has just been killed and that means…

As Malik sprints past the man, their eyes meet. He sees dawning horror, denial and then nothing more as his blade splits the air between them. Malik keeps on running and in his wake, blood from a sliced throat splatters the air, rains down and one drop lands on the tail end of his white robe. He is out the gate, concealed in shadow and leaping off his seventh rooftop by the time the alarms start clanging. Calmly, Malik brushes the hay from his robes, pulls his cowl down low before stepping out into the street, lost in the crowd and on his way to his next destination.

...

Yusof Ibn Hakim used to be a handsome man and he knows it. Used to, being the key phrase here. Now he is slightly over middle-aged and his girth widens more each year. His wives flatter him and tell him he is a lion in his prime; his reflection however, tells him the truth. Critically he eyes himself in the mirror before changing his mind about wearing the gold and blue tunic. Something darker—the emerald green with gold embroidery—and his rings on a tray so he may choose the one most befitting his wealth and station. Faster, he barks at his servants who scurry to do as they are commanded. As he preens in front of the mirror, he is unaware of the Assassin hidden on his balcony, camouflaged against the white stone walls Yusof is so proud of, listening to his every word.

Yusof Ibn Hakim, Malik long ago decided, is a pompous fat fool. However, he has equally fat purses and like a tapeworm burrows itself into the body of its host, he has managed to push his way into a centre of relative power. Undoubtedly he owes that to his status as one of the city's wealthiest merchants and his fellow Templars. Wherever he is going tonight, it is important enough for the toady to want to dress up to please and Malik knows he has missed his figurative mark again. If Yusof had known anything about the chalice, he would not be fussing with his clothes; he would be out his door, surrounded by bodyguards, trying to be discreet.

His guess is confirmed when Yusof shrieks at a servant for not fetching the gift he has prepared, never mind that he had not mentioned it up until that point. Sighing softly, Malik straightens, steps on the ornate metal railings and grasping the edge of the roof, pulls himself up in one fluid motion. Yusof has plenty of guards in his gardens and around the house so he leaves his roof unwatched thinking that three levels above the ground is in itself adequate protection. 'Fool indeed,' Malik thinks as he finds an isolated segment of the garden, drops down lightly before taking a running leap at the wall which is conveniently full of grand carvings which are all edges, an easy climb even for a man missing one arm.

There is only one person that Yusof is desperate to please and Malik is none too happy to discover he is right when he trails the merchant to the palatial home of one of the Regent's advisors. Briefly he recalls the time when he was a young boy looking out from the towers of Masyaf and wondering if his father would survive a war with the heavily armed soldiers of Salah al-Din. If Malik al-Kamil becomes tainted by Templar corruption and ambition, he would be a powerful force to be reckoned with, an enemy the Assassins cannot afford.

'Perhaps killing Yusof would be a sufficient warning,' Malik reasons as he watches the guards open heavy iron wrought gates that are so high and full of sharp points that only Altair would not think twice about scaling them. 'Only though, if they know about his Templar connections.' That is one good reason to spare Yusof's life though. It has been a year since their last Grand Master was assassinated and still the Templars have yet to appoint a successor. In Jerusalem, all is quiet and Yusof is one of the few channels of information Malik has. The occasional novice is sent to rifle through his documents or intercept messages meant for him but there has been no word so far. Even in Acre, where the Master Assassins venture and sometimes fail to return from, all is quiet. This disturbs Malik. Templars do not die easily; like Assassins, they have endured traumatic blows to their organization. Cut off one head and two more grow back. Cut off two and four more arise. Like the legendary Hydra, it might take a demi-god to kill off the Templars and perhaps with that Apple, Altair might entertain thoughts that he is the one to do it.

Malik is contemplating the similarities between Al Mualim and his former protégé, and assuring himself that Altair is wiser than their dead master when he finally reaches the Bureau at the edge of dawn. As he lets himself in, he catches a faint whiff, sharp and sweet. His oranges. Soundlessly he pads across the floor, slips through the short hall, down the stairs and stops at the doorway of the small kitchen.

The woman is awake and has eaten three, judging from the amount of peel she has left in a neat pile on the table. He has his revenge though, when he clears his throat, causing her to jump and predictably spill water down the front of her blouse.

"So," he says evenly, "what is your name and what are you doing with a Piece of Eden?"

...

There were just too many problems to think about that for the moment. Virginia refused to consider any of them. Instead, she focused on her surroundings. The darkness of the place and a look out the window informed her that night had fallen. A child of cities and modern lighting, she was unused to seeing almost total darkness beyond the window. The walls surrounding Jerusalem were marked out faintly by the flickering lights of what must have been torches. They looked small, tinier than the thick carpet of stars above.

Reluctantly she swallowed and grimaced at the bitterness in her mouth. She would have made a beeline for the toilet except that one, she didn't know where it was and two, she didn't think toothbrushes and toothpaste existed in Jerusalem or the year 1192. Which brought all her problems crashing back into existence. Slowly, Ginnie sat up, a hand on her head which felt like it was currently stuffed with cotton. What had been in that water? Probably something to make her sleep. Her hands stung slightly from the cuts and she wriggled her toes, remembering the splinter the man had removed from her foot.

"Hello?"

There was no response to her hoarse whisper. He must have gone out. She wondered who he was, what his name was and how it could be that a one-armed man could leap practically half a building in a single bound. Slowly she rose to her feet, eyes adjusting to the night. She could see her bag in the corner and a quick check confirmed her suspicions: he had taken her necklace but left everything else. Pragmatically, Ginnie took out her iPhone and switched on the torch application. Keeping close to the walls and trying not to jump at every little sound, she explored the place.

Apart from the hallway at the entrance, there were two other rooms, excluding the one she was in. One was obviously where the man slept, judging from the single chest which she assumed held his possessions, a pallet, and a low wide shelf that held a lamp and some books. The next room was a lot larger, with rows and rows of books, a long wooden table and another lamp.

On her way down the flight of steps, she stubbed her toe and winced as her low curse pierced the semi-darkness. The lower level consisted of the kitchen which was connected to a larger covered area that held a small well. Several overturned buckets were piled neatly in a corner. Peering down, the light didn't reach the bottom but she could hear the soft sounds of water. Beyond the walls, she could hear nothing but Ginnie wondered, because she had noticed, the lack of windows on the lower level. Retreating back to the kitchen, she saw a basket on the table and realized to her delight, it held oranges. Ginnie loved oranges and these, while slightly smaller than what she was used to, were exactly what she needed now.

Swallowing the last of the fruit, she looked around for a cup, found one and proceeded to open the lids of the clay vessels lined up against the wall. One held oil, the others some spices, and finally, she found what she wanted—water. Dipping the cup inside, she closed the lid and sniffed the liquid. It smelt alright, and she wondered if it had been boiled. But beggars couldn't be choosers and with a small prayer that she wouldn't end up with the runs, Ginnie put her lips to the cup and started to drink.

And that was when the man cleared his throat. Unfortunately, screaming while swallowing water is never a good idea and she promptly choked, spilling water down her front.

"So, who are you and what are you doing with a Piece of Eden?"

It didn't matter that she didn't know his name, she had several in mind that would make his ears burn. Ignoring him, Ginnie coughed until the burning at the bottom of her throat subsided before glaring at him.

"You could've waited until I was done drinking," she croaked irately. Grabbing her phone, she hit the button and shone the light at him.

Malik inhaled sharply as the instrument in her hand burst into light and he ducked behind the wall as she brought it up in his direction. For all he knew, it might have been a weapon.

Ginnie blinked. A nanosecond ago he had been there. "It's just a torch," she said uncertainly, wondering if it had been a good idea to use the phone. After all, the Church had been willing to do Galileo in unless he recanted his theory that the earth moved. The last thing she needed was to be accused of sorcery and witchcraft for technology that someone else had invented. "Look, I'll put it away if it makes you uncomfortable but it's just light, that's all."

Cautiously, Malik moved back into the doorway. "How does that produce light?" he asked. The Assassin in him was advocating caution but the scholar in him was too curious not to ask.

Perplexed, Ginnie stared at him. "I…I don't know actually." Again, he had managed to make her feel stupid without trying. "I just know how to activate it. I can't explain how it manages to do so." She wondered how he would react to Angry Birds but decided that she could ask that another day. "Where have you been?"

No one had asked him that for years and the last person to do so was Kadar. He had been fifteen, his brother ten and he had snuck out for midnight practice with Altair. Fist-fighting had turned into a game of free running through Masyaf while dodging the sentries before culminating in who could steal the flag on the highest tower without being caught and by default, scalped by Al Mualim. By the time he had returned to the sleeping quarters he shared with Kadar, it had been dawn and his brother, he discovered, had been awake and waiting for more than two hours. "Where have you been?" Kadar was too respectful to be demanding but there was something so plaintive and vulnerable in his voice that Malik berated himself for leaving the younger alone. After all, they had only each other and he shuddered to think what would happen to Kadar in his absence.

"And why are you dressed like that?"

For a moment, Malik considered lying to her but he could see her eyes focused on the daggers glinting at his belt before sliding over to the sword that hung at his side. When she looked up at him, he could see apprehension in those strange eyes. Almond shaped, ebony eyes. There was something of the Orient about this one although her fair skin marked her as being partly Franj as well. Maybe she was another half-breed, like Altair. "You have yet to answer my questions. Come," he ordered curtly before heading back up the stairs.

Ginnie hesitated, debating the wisdom of following a man who was armed to the teeth before realizing she had no alternative. Besides, his being armed to the teeth seemed to provide more reason for obeying him. 'And in any case, he saved your ass today when he could have left you behind.' This was not a cruel man, at least he didn't appear to be so. Not that she knew very much about judging men. If she did, she wouldn't have married the pond scum whose name she used to have.

By the time she sidled into the room, her hands clenched nervously together, Malik had lit the oil lamp on the table. Removing his sword, he placed it on the table before him before seating himself. There was only one chair in the whole room and it was for the Rafiq. The other person had to stand, a subtle acknowledgement of the latter's authority and right now, it had all the effect of an interrogation on the woman before him.

He was trying to intimidate her and she knew it but was still somewhat scared anyway. And for that, Ginnie resented both of them. "I have questions too," she pointed out, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "I'll answer yours but I need information as well."

He arched one brow slightly and it made him look even more forbidding.

"Well, it makes sense. _Quid pro quo_ and all that right?" Ginnie said defensively.

"You speak Latin?"

"You just heard all the Latin I know. I'm monolingual; I only speak English although I could eavesdrop in Spanish."

"Well, at least you know one language so it shouldn't be too difficult to answer my questions. Unless you've already forgotten them, which would indicate that you suffer from memory deficit as well." Malik had little patience for people who indulged in self-deprecation and even less so when it came to her because he wanted answers and he wanted them immediately.

The snarky bastard had just insulted her! Ginnie's eyes went bright with ire and she stopped twisting her fingers into knots. "You are the only thing I suffer from," she said, smiling sweetly. "As for your Piece of Eden riddles, I would like to know what those are as well. And my name is Virginia but you can call me Ginnie."

"_Jinni_?" Malik was a little startled. What kind of name was that for a mortal woman?

"Yes, it's a shortened version of Virginia." She doubted he would be making any of the usual "I Dream of Jeannie" or "Genie in a Bottle Let me rub you the right way" jokes and pick-up lines she usually suffered through but was half-expecting some kind of insult. "Is there a problem?"

"Not with your name, no."

"Good. Wait a minute, what—"

With an impatient glare, Malik silenced her. Experienced Assassins had quivered before him and this mere slip of a young woman was not tougher than them. "Start from the beginning. How did you come into possession of the necklace?" Obviously nobody had told her what it was she held or how valuable it could be.

Maybe he was a treasure-hunter. That would explain the weapons. A medieval Indiana Jones of some sorts, just ten times more frightening. "It's been in the family for ages, passed down from an ancestress from this part of the world. My mother gave it to me. And speaking of which, where did you keep it?"

Malik ignored her question. "And what is the year in the land—New York— that you hail from?"

The fine hair on her arms and legs stood and she hoped the goosebumps weren't so visible. "New York is a city in America." Ginnie swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. "The year was…is 2011."

Few things could render him speechless but it wasn't everyday that a person claimed to be from a future that was almost a thousand years away, and a land that for all he knew was a fiction. If not for Altair's visions… Schooling his face into an expression of careful neutrality, he decided to test her. "And how many of these pillars of glass and metal are there? Do they really pierce the heavens?"

For an instant Ginnie wondered what the hell he was talking about. Then, realization washed over her and she shivered. "You mean skyscrapers. Buildings of metal, glass and concrete and every nation in the world wants to have the tallest one." It was the architectural version of little boys in the toilets comparing whose was bigger than whose gone global. "The tallest in the world is over two thousand feet high. How did you know?"

Horror, cold and clear, rippled down Malik's spine. So the vision was accurate, and maybe the apocalypse to come was something that had already taken place and no amount of studying the Apple would prevent it. Or was it the study of the Apple that would bring it about?

"Is that what a Piece of Eden does?" Ginnie shifted uncertainly on the spot. "Did it show you the future?" How many others are there?" Could those get her home?

He wondered how much he could tell her. One glance at the wall of the entranceway would show her their sign. Perhaps he ought to have put away his Assassin's robes before questioning her but Malik was too practical a man to waste time on regrets. After all, she was in an Assassin's Bureau and eventually novices, journeymen or Assassins would be arriving and leaving for missions.

Outside, dawn was breaking and the minarets were issuing the call to prayers. For Ginnie, it was a stark reminder of how far away from home she was. For Malik, it never failed to remind him of Kadar and how his devotion to religion had not been repaid. Or perhaps it was Malik's lack of faith that had cost him his brother. He remembered praying before his first kill. He could not recall praying after.

Fatigue tugged at him subtly, the result of a night's work and the burdens that were wearing him down. Altair was still away and only Allah knew when the man would come back. He would still send a message but for all intents and purposes, this woman and her Piece of Eden were his to deal with.

"I am not sure what a Piece of Eden can do, but you are living proof that its power does defy imagination."

Turning from the window, Ginnie was startled to see her necklace dangling from his gloved fingertips. She had not even realized he had moved. "Who are you, really? Why did you run from the city guards and how do you know about these Eden pieces?"

Perhaps it was a trick of the light but the Piece of Eden seemed to glimmer with a rich amber hue from within as it hung, suspended between them, teasing and taunting him with its mystery.

"My name is Malik al-Syaf," he replied quietly, "and I am an Assassin."

* * *

><p>an: Many, many thanks for the reviews. I hope the talk between Ginnie and Malik went down relatively well. I was having some trouble with them…

**NyaPowa**, thanks for the thumbs-up to my Bureau renovations. And as for that door, yes, I have to agree and so there shall be one. I hope this chapter is long enough! **flyingcrispi**, glad you like it and there will be another POE involved. I did a little research and I have some theories to flesh out. **Momiji**, you are too kind. ^^ I'm quite new to the fandom but if you haven't read xahra99's stories, you must. They are exactly what you are looking for. **plume-noire6**, thanks for stopping by and letting me know. ^^ **x-Lure**, I know what you mean about OCs; but there are some pretty nice ones out there. I really don't like Sues at all so no fears about Virginia. I just hope she doesn't turn out boring next to Malik Whom We All Love.


	4. IV

Disclaimer: Don't own anything except for the plot and OCs. Certainly not made for profit.

Summary: Malik Al-Sayf is knowledgeable, wise and the only one able to talk sense into the current Grand Master of the Assassins. He's also determined to solve the mystery and return Virginia Bradley to the era that spawned her. He just has to figure out how to do that and keep her from causing his Bureau to fall apart.

**IN A GRAIN OF SAND**

IV.

Usually the mere mention of "Assassin" sent people screaming for their lives, whimpering in fear or if said people were guards, it automatically triggered screams of "Infidel!" and led to much brandishing of weapons and mad charges. Those were the reactions Malik was very much accustomed to. Ill concealed irritation was something new.

"Well?" Virginia waited for what seemed like several long seconds before finally deciding she had missed some point he was trying to make. "What does that mean?" Of course it wasn't comforting to have a stranger sitting less than five feet from you openly declare he was a killer but Ginnie had decided that he wasn't about to use that sword or those daggers to perform a live autopsy on her. That, and the gradual lessening of that fuzzy feeling in her head, made her bolder. When faced with difficult people, Ginnie had been raised to be reasonable and firm, not bite back. However, being stranded across time in the Dark Ages and practically interrogated was taking a toll on her frayed nerves.

Again he arched a brow and stared down the length of his nose at her. How he managed that while sitting down, she had no idea but Ginnie was sick and tired of being made to feel the fool. "You heard me. I mean, what does "you are an assassin" mean, exactly? Are you a hitman for hire? Member of some rock band?" Her voice was going higher by notches but Ginnie couldn't hear it. "007 of Jerusalem—what? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not from around here and whatever epiphany was supposed to dawn on me…well, it didn't happen! So you'll just have to unpack that code-speak for me. And by the way, everyone from my time would have understood every word I just said. " Angrily, she folded her arms defensively over her chest. "I am not stupid. I am just…" she groped around for a better word but couldn't find another. "Lost. I'm lost."

Great, and now she was going to cry. Roughly, Ginnie swiped her eyes with the back of her hand, took a couple of deep breaths and stared defiantly at Malik. "And don't think I haven't noticed that you still have yet to explain what an Eden piece is. Or answer any of my questions."

"Piece of Eden," he correct automatically, since he was contemplating the implications of her ignorance. Everyone knew who the Assassins were, everyone. And while Masyaf might be the stronghold of Assassin might, there were other Assassins elsewhere. Did they no longer exist in the future? Altair had started to speak of the need for secrecy in the rare messages he sent so that Malik would know he wasn't dead and buried in some strange land in the East. Were all the Assassins hidden from the everyday man on the street?

"Potato Potahto."

"What?"

Now it was her turn to look down her nose at him. Except that she was sure she didn't look half as impressively haughty. "It's all the same. You're splitting hairs."

It would be several hundred years before that idiom was officially used but Malik could appreciate the example presented. "So what is a rock band?"

"Huh?"

"You mentioned it so you should explain it." Malik could not care less what it really was although he was sure that it did not literally mean a group of unholy rocks uniting together to terrorise travelling caravans. The important thing was to get her talking and by default, calm her down and prevent an onslaught of feminine crying, which Malik so thoroughly detested. Cramming more opium down her throat was always an alternative but he did not want to wrestle her to the floor and she would become more of a problem upon regaining consciousness.

How was she going to explain what an electric guitar was? Ginnie stared at Malik who calmly brushed a piece of non-existent dirt from his robe and waited. "Okay, you won't know what the instruments are but the music is very specific. Umm…there's a lot of drums. And cymbals," she added, thinking madly for a Middle-Eastern musical instrument she was familiar with before realizing she knew nuts about the Middle East save for whatever passed for news on the television. "It's usually quite loud and fast and the lyrics, the words that go with the music—"

"I know what lyrics are," he interrupted dryly. "Even in such backward times as these we have songs." She muttered an insult; Malik did not know what 'snarky' was but 'bastard' it seemed, was timeless.

"As I was saying, the lyrics are usually about love," she ignored the subtle roll of his eyes, "but also about politics, society, sex…" He looked unfazed and she was impressed. So he wasn't going to brand her with a scarlet 'A' and preach to her about morals. "Usually there are four or five people in the band. A lead singer, two guitarists—a guitar is a stringed instrument—someone who plays the drums. And that's about it…" She shrugged awkwardly, waiting for the gods of Rock to strike her dead for her complete butchering of the genre. 'Oh well, I always was a Pop kinda gal…'

"And you associated assassins with these bands because…"

"Well, they have pretty cool…pretty nice names. 'Assassins' might be a bit of a cliché now though. Maybe punk rock…" Whatever the hell that was. "Erm… we have Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Beatles, The Eagles—"

"So your age would rather name its musicians after insects, spices, and birds. It makes perfect sense."

"Hey, they get to decide what they want to be called. And if you're going to be so fussy about it…"

"No need to get defensive. After all, as you rightfully pointed out, you were not charged with the naming of these bands." He smiled and Ginnie narrowed her eyes at him slightly. "Assassins have masqueraded as musicians before though."

He rose to his feet, went to stand by the window, looking out at the streams of people already flooding the streets. High above, eagles circled the minarets and towers, piercing the skies with their shrill cries, searching for prey. "We work in the dark, to serve the light."

She had been standing an awfully long time and now that his back was partially to her, Ginnie shifted closer to the table before leaning gratefully against it. She made sure she kept well away from the sword though. "Are you part of a secret organization?"

"Secret? Yes and no. Everyone knows about us but they do not know where we are, when we strike."

That must have been how he lost his arm. Ginnie studied him intently, this man—Malik—who was caught between the glow of the lamp and the burgeoning brightness of the morning. Yesterday's details were a hazy blur punctuated with moments of intense terror and now in the quiet of the room, she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time. He was tall, slim build but she knew how strong he was. His nose was straight and high, his hair dark brown like his eyes and he carried himself so confidently that the loose sleeve at his left side was something you missed at first glance. "Everywhere and nowhere."

He turned slightly. "Al Mualim would have appreciated that."

"I work in a bookstore and I actually read. I like paradox. Who is Al Mualim?"

A traitor whose body was ash on the wind and whose soul, hopefully, would never find rest. "He was the former master who passed on. Now we have another."

Obviously he did not want to talk about how his master had died. Perhaps they had been close. Malik seemed capable enough, in spite of his handicap. "So what is this light you serve?"

She would not understand the Creed. Sometimes Malik doubted that he did, wondered if Altair's version of it was sound. The young novices, when they thought the more serious elders were not around, would often gleefully pronounce that everything was permitted before indulging in foolish pranks. "We strive for peace in all things," he finally said. "To help the oppressed who cannot help themselves."

"What do you do, kill dictators?"

She expected him to say no but he merely turned and stared at her. Her eyes widened. "You're serious. You mean…." Once upon a time she had been a straight 'A' student of History and she dug into the recesses of her memory, blurting out the first name that surfaced. "Julius Caesar?"

"I would not have used forty men, although it worked. Close your mouth; you look as dignified as a panting camel. And we are done with the guessing games."

"You've killed before, haven't you?" It was such a stupid, predictable question but she had to ask it anyway.

"There you have your answers to the questions in the kitchen."

He spoke so softly that she almost missed his words and when the entirety of his meaning sank upon her, all the fine hairs on her arms and neck rose. Where had he been last night, why was he dressed this way… Her eyes swept him from head to toe and she found what he must have intended for her to see. Red sash on white robes, and lower down, a stark red stain that bloomed on the hem. For one moment nausea rose and Ginnie tasted sourness on her tongue.

"And now you know what an Assassin is."

Mutely she nodded. One red stain, one quick strike. Everywhere and nowhere and maybe not even a cry in the dark. Blood melding in the dust and she pushed away the image of her face superimposed on the fallen shape on the ground. Somehow everything had become more visceral, a lesson in reality.

"As for the Pieces of Eden…" Altair spoke to no one about them, save for him. Although there was always Maria Thorpe… "They are relics left behind by Those Who Came Before. Or at least, that's what we call them because we know not their names. We do not know what the Pieces are made of, nor do we know the extent of their true powers. Until today I would not have conceived that it could bring a person across time." He had watched, frozen and helpless as Al Mualim multiplied himself and played the puppet-master in a vicious dance of death with the assassins whose wills he had stolen. Even before one took a bite of that forbidden fruit, there was a river of blood to swim through.

Malik looked so grim that Ginnie dared not speak. What he was saying sounded familiar to the alien conspiracies that people bandied about and pretended to take seriously on National Geographic. Aliens who had come and evolved life, only to leave behind statues on Easter Island and pyramids. Ginnie used to sniff at those books as she placed them on the shelves, wondering what person would assault their brain cells with such trash. Now she wished she had read through said trash. It might have had something useful.

"What did you see?" She was lost in thought and it took her a moment to gather her wits. Malik watched her carefully, wondering if she was even aware of her hand that was reaching for the necklace he had left on the table. Unlike Altair, he had refused to look into the Apple and in spite of his vehement insistence of the Piece being destroyed, a part of him remained curious about what it was like. Maybe his curiosity was the reason he feared it so.

"You can't say no," Ginnie realised that much, speaking almost as much to herself as she was to him. She lifted her hand, turned it palm up and looked down at the bead. "It was chaos, in the museum. Someone had a gun and everyone was screaming. I fell but all I could think about was getting to this, to the chalice even though I wanted to escape. And then someone was speaking to me." The voice, soothing, gentle, the words elusive. She did not know how to repeat them. "There was blood inside the cup. And then everything vanished and I fell."

She looked up at him and there was a dreamy look in her eyes that set his teeth on edge. Malik knew enchantment when he saw it. "They belong together you know, this bead and the cup."

The next thing Ginnie knew, Malik who had been standing at the window was suddenly by her side, so close she could feel his warmth and his hand was on hers, gently unfolding her fingers and removing the bead from her grasp. She didn't even remember picking it up.

"What am I going to do?" she whispered, looking up at him. For once, Malik had no ready reply.

She was no longer on the verge of hysterics but she seemed no less helpless to Malik. This woman would die in a foreign city, in this age unknown to her without his aid. He had brought her to the Bureau because it was the only sanctuary in Jerusalem; he had had every intention of sending for an escort to take her to Masyaf and off his hands. Now, Malik found himself reluctant to do so.

_You found it and you brought it back. It's your responsibility. _His own words echoed back at him from across the years. Altair had tried to get Malik to raise that crippled eagle and had gotten a beating (in return for giving one) and scolding instead. This was a woman, not an animal. Besides, she was from the future and would be a source of valuable information.

"We prepare you for living in this age. And we plan."

"You mean, you'll make sure I'm going to make it out of this alive and you'll think of something." So he would help her. There was hope after all. "Thank you, Malik."

His smile was slight but it reached his eyes. "I think, Virginia, that you and I understand each other. We may yet get along. Now fetch your robe and wait for me at the fountains."

She was almost out the doorway when she turned around suddenly. "Did the Assassins get Cleopatra too?"

Malik cursed himself for speaking too soon. "What part of my instructions did you fail to understand?"

She promptly disappeared but he heard her muttering down the hallway. "At least one man and a cobra is an improvement over forty assassins to one victim."

Ginnie had none of an Assassin's keen hearing; otherwise she might have heard a soft chuckle, and something about Amunet and an asp.

...

There were a lot of people. And animals. And because there were so many of them, it paid to watch where you stepped. Ginnie grimaced as she watched a donkey calmly pass out the remains of what must have been last night's hay while walking. His master, in front leading him by a rope, seemed to have no idea of the nasty trail that was being left behind. But apparently the city must have employed cleaners because the streets were not overrun with rubbish and filth. It was not too bad really, considering that this was practically the Dark Ages, at least to her. No one was hurling household slops out the windows, along with human waste. Apparently that still happened during the Elizabethan era in England and it was safe to say that England in 1192 would still see the same practice occurring. Yes, there were worst places to be and Ginnie felt another wave of gratitude when she glanced back at the tall man who was walking beside her. Even if he was a member of some ancient society that carried out political assassinations.

It was just a short trip to the local market, but a necessary one. Malik had lost yesterday's food, not to mention his inks and quills. Stopping at several stalls, he picked up fruit, freshly baked bread, some salted meat and bought some cooked lamb and fish wrapped in parchment paper. All of these went into a cloth bag which he made Virginia carry. He would look after her but he fully expected her to make herself useful, in time. By bringing her around, he hoped that she would soon acclimatize herself to the surroundings. She clearly didn't understand the use of the currency, and she had no grasp of any of the languages, else she would have reacted when one bold proprietor commented that Malik was a lucky man to have such an exotic looking servant. Virginia had been busy staring at camels on sale and a child eating kebabs, and so thankfully missed the lewd looks sent her way.

"Where are we going?" Ginnie asked plaintively as they rounded another corner. She knew Malik was trying to get her used to being in Jerusalem and she was trying to keep track of the route they had taken from the house, not very successfully though. However, her increasing hunger pangs were becoming hard to ignore, especially since she had a rather vocal stomach which thankfully, could not be heard over the noise of the market. She had practically drooled while watching the boy chewing his kebabs and licking his fingers.

"I need paper and some quills." Amongst other things, but the less she knew, the better. "This is the place to come to, if you ever are in want of stationery and books."

"All these shops sell books and writing materials?" It was a pretty long street, stretching down as far as her eye could see. "There must be a lot of competition for business."

Malik sidestepped a man who had just emerged from a shop with his arms full of packages. He looked grumpy and there was a crumpled corner of what Malik guessed was a list sticking out from the inner pocket of his robe. This was no scholar, no lover of books. The material of his clothes was decent but rough, the stitching mediocre. A servant then, sent to buy books for a rich master or mistress. "Not necessarily. We all specialize in different types of texts."

"You moonlight as a bookseller?"

"I sell some books but make a living mainly from cartography, transcribing and translating books." Of course there was always money from Masyaf but Malik was proud to say he hardly needed it.

Ginnie almost bumped into Malik when he suddenly stopped and pushed open a door to one of the shops. "Have a look around. Do not touch anything," he said sternly, waiting until she nodded before heading off to speak with the pleasant-looking shopkeeper who obviously knew him.

"Yes my lord," she grumbled under her breath, feeling a little lost not to have him near her. Still, there was some comfort in being amongst books and soon she forgot about her hunger as she looked longingly at the shelves. Some of the books looked like they have been stitched with genuine gold thread and she badly wanted to open them, to see what was inside. These would be worth a fortune back in her time.

Basim, true to his name, smiled broadly upon seeing Malik. "Peace be unto you today, my friend."

"And to you be peace with Allah's mercy," Malik replied. It was automatic, but nonetheless sincere. He noted Basim's curiosity at Virginia's presence but knew his old friend would be far too discreet to ask about her. "I am in need of paper, ink and quills again."

Basim raised his brows but proceeded to put together a parcel of what Malik had ordered the day before. "You went through them that quickly?"

"It was unexpected." Both of them looked at Virginia and to Malik's chagrin, he noted she had pushed back her hood and uncovered her hair.

"It matters not. She is clearly not of the faith, or from around here," Basim said quickly. "Is everything alright?" he asked, lowering his voice to a murmur.

He was not of the Brotherhood, but Basim was a trustworthy friend and at times, a valuable source of information. "For the moment. What do you know of Holy relics, chalices to be precise?"

In spite of himself, Basim felt a flutter of excitement in his chest. "There is only one sought after by all Christendom. The Holy Chalice, used by their prophet and savior at his Last Supper."

Malik picked up a quill, studied the fine tracery of the feathers before placing it back down on the table. As hoped, Basim realised his hands had fallen still and quickly, he continued with his packing. "I thought so too. Some say it was the same vessel used to catch Christ's blood as it fell from the Cross. They call it the Grail."

"The lore is so muddled. Yet, they could be one and the same. The wine was referred to as his blood, and the Grail is said to have caught his blood." Basim shrugged and then brightened. "I have something that could be of use…"

Before Malik could say anything, Basim had disappeared into the back of his shop. And that was when Malik realised he could hear the faint crinkling of pages. 'Will that woman not do as she is told?'

Stalking over the shelves, he found her in less than three seconds. It took one look at her to quell his ire. She held the book carefully, and the pages were being turned with infinite care. But instead of avid interest or smiles, a deep frown marred her forehead and she was biting her lips, something she did when she was distressed. "Virginia…"

With a frustrated sigh, she closed the book and put it back on the shelf. "I'm sorry but…" Looking up and around, she saw rows and rows of books, a world of knowledge that she was locked out of. "I can't read anything." She was effectively illiterate and it was a terribly disconcerting feeling. If she were lost, she would not be able to find her way back. There were no directions, no phrases, no taxis or embassy to go to.

"Why do you think I told you not to touch anything?"

"Because you thought I was going to destroy something?"

"That too but I already knew you wouldn't be able to understand the words." She glared at him but it was an empty gesture. "One step at a time, Virginia. You cannot learn everything all at once."

"Ginnie," she corrected, trailing after him to the counter.

"I am not calling you that. You are not a djinn. Have your parents no fear of the supernatural to give you such a name? "

For one moment, she stared at him and then she started to giggle. "No sill—" she caught herself before the word slipped out. Malik was not a man one called silly. "Not the magical being. It's a nickname," she explained but saw Malik was unfamiliar with the term. "A pet name, spelled G-I-N-N-I-E."

Ah, that clarified the matter then. "I am still calling you Virginia."

"Stubborn man."

"I will not sink to the level of name calling."

"Loosen up, Mal."

"You will not address me as such. Ever." At that moment he wished he had his sword or hidden blade so that he could make his point, literally and figuratively. Of course he could draw his knife but Basim was coming out and Malik did not want to make a scene.

"Whatever you say," Ginnie smiled. "Mal," she added before scuttling away.

"If you are in need of an overgrown child, you may adopt her," Malik growled.

Basim chuckled. He may not have comprehended all of what was being said but nonetheless, he understood what had happened. "She is your problem, my friend. But I may be able to offer you a solution for the other situation." He slipped the book into the package before handing everything to Malik. "This contains everything that you need to know about the Chalice. Copies of this book are rarities and I do not know of any in Jerusalem, Damascus or Acre who are in possession of any. And I think," he added with a meaningful look, "this might be better off in your hands than others. I will most certainly let you know if inquiries are being made."

"My thanks, Basim. Safety and peace upon you."

"And upon you too, Malik."

They had stepped out onto the streets and Malik was about to direct Ginnie to his shop when she startled him by asking what that phrase meant. "What?"

"You know, what you said to your friend in the shop." To his horror, she opened her mouth and gave a fairly accurate recitation. Any Templar who knew about Brotherhood salutations would have recognized it at once if they had been within earshot, and Malik, Ginnie and Basim would probably die horrible deaths.

"Do not ever repeat that in public," Malik hissed under his breath, his gaze boring so hard into her that Ginnie took a step back. This time when she nodded, she fully meant it. They spent the rest of the walk back in tense silence.

Malik kept his materials away and stashed the book in a hidden compartment before joining her in the kitchen. "I'm sorry," she said quietly as she handed him a plate with some loaves and the roasted lamb. "I didn't mean to cause you any trouble…"

He saw at once that she had cut his food into smaller portions for easier handling. "You couldn't have known. But that greeting is specific to the Brotherhood of Assassins. If our enemies overheard you using it…"

Suddenly her appetite was gone and Ginnie struggled to swallow the food. "I get it."

"If you ever hear anybody saying, "May the Father of Understanding guide you", try to get away as quickly as possible."

Now she was confused. "I thought your enemies were dictators or people who abused their power? Now you're telling me that your enemies are some religious sect?"

"Our enemies hide behind many masks and religion is one of them. I do not know if they truly believe in this entity, this Father they refer to."

"Are they Catholics?"

"No, but it is an understandable assumption to make. They use the symbol of the Cross though, but they believe in power above all and they certainly do not worship Christ." Altair had sifted through the hundreds of books in Masyaf, hoarded by Al Mualim in his obsessive research about the Pieces of Eden and if Malik remembered rightly, it was rumoured that the Templars, who controlled the Roman empire, had arranged for the crucifixion to get their hands on the Shroud which eventually disappeared, leaving both Assassins and Templars in the dark as to its actual whereabouts. In his message to Masyaf, he would have to request for some books to be brought to him. He needed to be careful about whom to make this request to. Rauf, perhaps. Not Abbas, not after he had tried to take the Apple.

As far as she knew, there was only one organization in the Middle East at this time that aligned itself closely with Christianity and the symbol of the Cross. "Are you talking about Templars?"

"That is what they are now known as."

"But the Templars don't go around oppressing people, I mean, not more than the average Crusader does so why them? Unless…" And suddenly, there was light. "They are after the Eden pieces."

"Pieces of Eden, yes."

"And if they know about the chalice and the necklace…"

"They'll take it and kill you."

Ginnie paled visibly. Suddenly, the lamb in her mouth tasted like dust. "But they don't know anything yet right? We can go back to the alleyway and search for the cup. In fact, we should have done that just now…" Her voice dwindled and finally died down when she realised that Malik was not saying anything. He had been out during the night. He must have gone to search for the cup. And it was not there because he had returned empty-handed. To say she had a really bad feeling about this would be an understatement. "Please tell me the Templars don't have the cup."

When he continued to remain silent, Ginnie groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Oh God, I'm completely screwed."

* * *

><p><strong>an**: Yay, done with that first conversation which I always find the most difficult. And as always, thanks for the reviews which give me something to read and ideas to consider. As for the Grail and the Chalice, most authors have collapsed the two as one and to be honest, I kinda think there really is just one.

**flyingcrispi**: Thank you for always reviewing! I really appreciate it and I hope you liked this one too. ^^

**x-Lure**: The Secret Life of Malik al-Sayf. Now there's a fic to consider. And thank you so much for the encouragement with Ginnie. This is my second attempt at an OC and I am somewhat nervous about it (since I never finished the first!).

**NyaPowa**: You got me there with the ending. ^^ I hope this one is better. And please continue with the constructive feedback. I'm trying to flesh out Ginnie's personality and it always helps to have a sounding board. And as for bathroom scenes, haha, you read my mind. I am trying to read up on water systems and such in medieval Jerusalem but everything is so maddening vague when it comes to tiny details.

**HBK 'N' Y2J**: ^^ Glad you enjoy the way I write Malik. I really want to do justice to his character.


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